


Scapegoat

by Highly_Illogical



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Adventure, Banter, Deception, Friendship, Gen, Magic, My First Work in This Fandom
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-05
Updated: 2018-07-05
Packaged: 2019-06-05 17:07:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,058
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15175370
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Highly_Illogical/pseuds/Highly_Illogical
Summary: Bad weather spells difficult days ahead for the citizens of Camelot, and Uther refuses to believe his kingdom's latest stroke of bad luck is caused by anything other than a mysterious sorcerer. But when it turns out there's no one to blame but Mother Nature herself, it's up to Arthur and Merlin to create the scapegoat Uther wants so badly, before innocent heads start rolling.





	Scapegoat

**Author's Note:**

> Hello, everyone!  
> So, we've had a pretty bad hailstorm recently, and that, in combination with my recent obsession with all things Merlin, has somehow produced this.  
> I have no words for how nervous I am about my first foray into a new (to me) fandom. Please don't put me in the stocks for this, I'm only having a bit of fun.

Merlin sleeps uneasily that night. The thick walls of Gaius’s tower do nothing to block out the furious howl of the wind and the constant clatter of unforgiving hail bouncing off the flagstones. Lightning flashes even behind his closed eyelids, accompanied by thunder rumbling like a beast greater than any he’s ever faced. He can’t remember ever being _scared_ of storms, even as a small child (although he’s certain Arthur would go to great lengths to claim the opposite: he can practically hear his voice calling him a girl), but it’s hard to sleep with this racket. Eventually, exhaustion takes him.

 

There’s a frostiness in the council chambers when the highest-ranking men of Camelot next convene, almost a leftover from the recent storm. Merlin, from his usual inconspicuous spot where he can keep his eyes trained on Arthur to see to his needs, can’t find it in his heart to blame them. He’s seen it; everyone with eyes has seen it. The procession of people from the outlying villages is never-ending, flooding the gates to give the king their weeping estimates of the damage and beg him for some sort of relief from the upcoming hardships. The hail has made their hard work come to nothing: fields trampled as though by giant feet, entire families wondering how they’re going to survive the winter on their now meager reserves. It makes him sick to the stomach. Every woman travelling to court, her modest possessions slung over her shoulders and a train of snotty children in tow because she has no one to care for them on her journey, wears his mother’s face. Every one of them could be Hunith, alone and helpless, struggling to make ends meet because of nature’s whims. He hasn’t heard from her in too long; he doesn’t know whether tragedy has struck Ealdor as well. He sends up a silent prayer to whatever god may be listening for his old home to be spared.

“This is the very last thing we needed,” a councilman’s voice breaks through his reverie. “Reports of ruined crops from as far as Everwick and Stonedown.” There’s an urgency to his tone as if he expected the king to do something, to punish the heavens as he would a common criminal. Merlin is willing to bet his own lands have suffered; perhaps he genuinely cares about the lives of his tenants, or perhaps he’s only concerned about having to cut back on expensive silks and velvets for his own wardrobe.

“Surely a hailstorm of this magnitude cannot be natural,” says Uther gravely. “The weather does not simply decide to destroy months of work of its own accord.”

Except that it does, thinks Merlin, trying not to fidget. He’s lived as a peasant too long not to know that that is just how summer works: a finicky season that throws great cosmic tantrums like a child, all warmth and sunshine one day and destruction the next, only for the skies to clear as rapidly as they had darkened. How can he not see that? Anger and fear bubble hotly in the pit of his stomach. If he’s blaming sorcery for this…

He sees Arthur start to protest his father’s renewed height of illogic and relief flares warmly somewhere in his chest, making his heart stutter. For a fleeting moment, he sees the future High King of Albion—a _reasonable_ king who won’t start pointing fingers the moment something goes wrong, a beacon of goodness and hope for his kind. But the younger man’s mouth audibly clicks shut, as if he’s decided that once his father is set in his ways, he might as well try to move a mountain with his bare hands.

Merlin shoots a desperate sideways look at Gaius, but he finds no sympathy there, only an old man’s weary resignation. _Not another witch hunt, not over this_ , he tries to convey, not in mind-speak, but only through his pleading eyes. The answering raised eyebrow says everything there is to say: _Don’t tell me you didn’t know this was coming._

Still, the elderly physician sighs and waits for the next lull in conversation to make his presence known: “If I may, sire, not every unfortunate circumstance is necessarily the product of magic.”

Uther gestures vaguely with his hand as if swatting away the voice of reason like a fly.

“Yes, yes, that’s possible,” he says in a tone that distinctly reminds Merlin of a father humoring a child. Then, with a colder, dangerous edge to his voice: “I hope for both our sakes you’re not protecting anyone.”

Merlin’s stomach drops somewhere beneath his feet. If speaking up is enough to land you squarely on the list of suspects, then no one in Camelot is safe.

 

If he takes it out on his guardian’s mortar and pestle later, well, that’s best not discussed. Grinding takes a bit of force anyway.

“What have those poor herbs ever done to you, boy?”

“As if you didn’t know,” he spits out.

“He needs someone to blame, Merlin.” No need to specify who ‘he’ is. “It’s only natural.”

“Yeah. I just wish he’d choose someone else for once.”

“You weren’t here before the Purge, Merlin. Uther’s reasons for banning magic may have a lot to do with matters of the heart and little to do with matters of state, but the abuses were very real. Crops ruined by sorcery were a common occurrence; starting a witch hunt for a hailstorm is a bit much, I’ll admit, but not as irrational as you might think. Are you _sure_ it wasn’t magical?”

“Please, not you too, of all people. A storm that size? I would have stayed awake for something other than the noise. I couldn’t do it if I tried, and you know what they say about me.”

He doesn’t like to pull the ‘most powerful sorcerer on Earth’ card; can’t even get the words out most of the time, really. The label feels heavy and awkward on his bony shoulders, like clothing meant for someone twice his size. But the fact remains that he would have _felt_ a sorcerer great enough to bring down the fury of the elements from the skies. It would have jolted him from sleep with a sense of impending danger, unsettled his stomach with the painful awareness that someone out there was toying with forces greater than themselves.

“Oh, really? See that you don’t test that anytime soon.”

Merlin’s insides twist unpleasantly. He never asked to be feared, but it’s definitely there, even in those closest to him—that small, traitorous part that wonders what he’ll do next. Only his mother has ever looked upon him with nothing less than pride and trust written on her features.

“I won’t. I wouldn’t! I promise, there was nothing unnatural about that hailstorm and I’ve no intention of a repeat.”

“Good. If you’re certain, I’m only too happy to believe you. It only confirms my theory: I’ve seen what the weather acts like when it’s being controlled by magic, and Uther ought to be able to see the difference as well. A sorcerous hailstorm is perfectly capable of wrecking a man’s field and leaving his neighbor’s untouched; this one struck indiscriminately. It’s certainly unlucky, but it doesn’t look like the work of someone with a grudge. Still, sorcery is a convenient scapegoat.”

“So what, he’ll just execute a few peasants who somehow managed to be spared from the worst of it, claiming they must have used magic to know it was coming, and he’ll be happy? Is that what you’re saying?”

“You’re skirting close to treason there, Merlin.”

“My entire existence is illegal! I commit treason every time I draw breath, so excuse me if I feel entitled to say the king is being ridiculous! You can’t convict me of the same crime twice!”

“I never said I disagreed with you, my boy. I don’t think sorcery is involved either, but in his own way, Uther cares about his people, and when something bad happens, he’ll leave no stone unturned.”

“And what’s the first stone he just so happens to turn? Magic! If he jumps to conclusions so quickly, I’m surprised there’s anyone left alive in Camelot at all.”

He’s beaten the contents of his mortar to a sorry pulp by now.

“He’ll see reason.”

“And will that be before or after someone burns?”

Merlin takes a grim satisfaction in seeing that Gaius has no answer to that. He pushes away his tools in favor of gripping the edge of the table in frustration.

“Exactly how does he expect anyone to prove that there’s no one to blame but the weather? Are we just supposed to wait until he forgets about it? We both know no evidence of sorcery is going to turn up.”

“No real evidence, you mean.”

That takes the wind out of him. “What?”

“When the king is in one of his moods, Merlin, the court becomes a nest of vipers—or more of a nest than it usually is. The time is ripe for some vengeful lord or other to frame his neighbor for hiring a non-existing sorcerer, get him banished or killed for consorting with magic-users, and get his hands on his property. And that’s just one example.”

“And how do you propose I stop that? I can’t be everywhere at once!”

“Nor are you expected to. I know you’re growing used to carrying the weight of the world on your shoulders, but it is not your place to stop every case of court intrigue and petty revenge you see. Let them squabble all they like—yes, even at the price of loss of life if it must be. You can’t save everyone. Your only responsibility has a name.”

“Arthur.” It comes out automatically, and Merlin kicks himself for not seeing it sooner. “You think they’re going to get him involved? Blame the king’s own heir for the disaster and get someone else on the throne? That’s ridiculous, I mean, anyone with a shred of common sense can see he’d never do that!”

Gaius hums knowingly.

“Yes, but I haven’t seen much common sense lately, have you? It must have died with the crops.”

 

He puts on his best efficient manservant act over the next few days, but his meticulous cleaning spree is really just an excuse to comb Arthur’s belongings for anything suspicious. He takes his sweet time tidying his desk only to find with a sigh of relief that no one has thought to plant a forged letter to some made-up sorcerer among his papers; he goes through the soft, luxurious fabrics of his wardrobe to make sure all his pockets are free of anything that shouldn’t be there.

He’s just conveniently fluffed his many pillows (or maybe checked underneath them; nothing there either) and dived under the bed only to be met by a few dust bunnies and no evidence whatsoever of anything amiss, when an amused voice startles him out of his mission.

“Careful there, Merlin. At this rate, I might start thinking you’re halfway competent.”

His head comes up in surprise and collides painfully with the underside of the bed. Eyes watering, rubbing the offended part with one hand, he emerges from his awkward position, unable to do much better than respond to the jibe with an exasperated look. He’s just quick enough to catch what might be a flash of concern in the prince’s eyes at his discomfort, but it’s gone so fast it might have been a trick of the light.

“… Forget I said anything. Every time I start believing you might actually be learning how to do your job, you set out to prove you’re still the same old Merlin.”

“Wouldn’t want you to get worried. You’ve got quite enough to think about as it is.” Even as he scrambles to his feet and dusts his hands off, he doesn’t miss Arthur’s soft sigh.

There’s a heavy silence that Merlin doesn’t dare break with an unsolicited ‘Want to talk about it?’, because then Arthur would resort to his standard defense of calling him a girl’s petticoat and clamming up for the rest of the day, preferring to vent his foul mood on the training grounds. He only ever talks about such girly things as _feelings_ on his own terms, which is to say not at all.

Instead, he just waits. Sometimes, when the prince has a heavy load he needs to take off his chest, all he has to do is stand there, looking particularly insolent for a manservant, and it will all come tumbling out of his mouth in angry torrents. He hopes this is one of those times, and Arthur does not disappoint.

He stalks to his bed, punches one of the wooden posts supporting the heavy curtains, and immediately regrets it, judging by the wince as pain shoots through his clenched fist, but at least he seems to feel better. That’s something.

“This doesn’t make any sense.” Arthur is pointedly _not_ looking at Merlin, because that would be admitting that he needs his advice, and he would never stoop so low. Instead, he’s trying his best to make it look like he’s talking to himself, and Merlin is happy to let him.

“We’ve had hailstorms before, and he’s never jumped to sorcery so quickly. And it’s not even the fact that he’s seeing sorcerers in his own shadow, it’s his priorities. Even assuming there’s a culprit, he should still be coming up with a contingency plan first and punishing him later, not the other way around.”

Merlin dearly wishes he could somehow pour the sound of those words into a bottle, to uncork it later and listen to them again. It’s at times like this that Arthur sheds his boyish eagerness to please and lets the Once and Future King (well, Future more than anything at this point) shine through.

“He hasn’t?”

“I had to… politely remind him that we have children’s lives at stake here. I offered to check if we have the grain to spare for a distribution while he’s busy chasing sorcerers that may or may not exist.”

Merlin’s eyebrows shoot into his hairline.

“Not in so many words, you idiot, how would that be in any way productive? I can’t very well make myself useful from the dungeons. I’m becoming surprisingly adept at making outright treason sound like helpful suggestions.”

“While we’re on the subject of treasonous advice, have you considered that maybe he’s getting a little… extreme as the years go by?”

It’s no use dancing around the issue: Arthur sees right through his careful euphemisms.

“Great, now my own servant is saying I have a paranoid old fool for a father. Count yourself lucky that no one else can hear you.”

“I wouldn’t go as far as that, but we can’t rule out the possibility that you may have to… take charge.”

He ought to be thrown in the dungeons for this: he’s as good as encouraging the king’s son to overthrow him. And yet, it seems the right thing to say, because what if this is it? Could it possibly be this, a common summer hailstorm, that brings along the coming of Albion? Destiny has done stranger things before.

“What, become regent? Over one mistake? This isn’t nearly enough to declare him unfit for the throne.”

“And what _would_ be enough?”

“Don’t even think about it. I don’t know what you’re thinking, but just… don’t. Now is not the time for a coup and I won’t have you involved in it, for both our sakes. For everyone’s sake. The people need stability. Things are bad enough as it is.”

Which is shorthand for ‘I’m not ready to be king’, but Merlin doesn’t think he’ll live to see the day he says that out loud.

“So we either let your father go on a wild goose chase, or we prove this isn’t the work of a sorcerer? Funny how much easier it is to prove that there _is_ magic involved than to prove there _isn’t_.”

Arthur stares. His face seems to light up from within with renewed energy, and it’s all Merlin can do to look at his determined smirk and wonder what he’s said to cause it.

“Merlin…” He sounds excited all of a sudden, like a child who’s been promised a treat, but he visibly clamps down on his reaction and finishes lamely: “Open those oversized ears of yours, because you’ll never hear me say this again: you might actually have had a good idea there.”

Oh, no. Merlin can feel his eyes going wide at the irony: he’s spent the past few days fretting that someone else would invent a non-existing sorcerer, and now it sounds for all the world like Arthur wants to do exactly that.

Admittedly, he has considered giving Uther something more substantial than a shadow to sink his claws into: it’s worked once, why shouldn’t it work twice? But truth be told, he really doesn’t fancy another walk in an old man’s shoes, and he’s had enough close shaves with the pyre to last him a lifetime. Arthur, however, doesn’t know he and Dragoon are one and the same, so whatever plan is forming in his mind, it certainly doesn’t involve any aching joints or impossibly long beards on his part; then how in the name of all that is good and holy does he intend to pull it off?

Better play dumb and fish for more information. “What idea?”

“There you go again. You said it’s easier to prove there’s magic at work, so we’re taking the easy route. If it’s proof Father wants, proof is exactly what he will get.”

“Let me get this straight: the king expects a sorcerer, so we’re making one up?”

“I knew you had a brain in there somewhere. Get ready for a nice, long ride: you and I are going hunting.”

“What’s hunting got to do with anything?”

“You’ll know when we get there. In the meantime, if Gaius still has anything in his rooms that looks remotely magical to an untrained eye, I suggest you bring it along. I’ll take care of the rest.”

The pieces of Arthur’s plan are starting to fall together. They share a grin, but it dies quickly.

“This is… a lot more treasonous than a few well-placed suggestions, sire. We’re more or less plotting to make a fool of the king.”

“Correction, we’re making sure he stops acting like it. Now _that_ is treason.”

 

Arthur doesn’t breathe another word about the Plan (which has now acquired a very large capital P in Merlin’s mind) until they’re well into the Forest of Brechfa, crossbows at the ready and studiously pretending this is just another hunting trip. Merlin keeps his good-natured grumbling to the bare minimum for once: they both have bigger and better things to do than rib each other mercilessly about their respective stances on the noble, or not so noble, sport of hunting. The odds and ends he’s nicked from Gaius’s shelves are burning a hole in his satchel, and Arthur’s luggage for the occasion is also rather on the bulky side for his standards, which is a miracle in itself—between the two, it’s Merlin who usually plays the part of the beast of burden.

He’s about to remind him that they’re here for more reasons than just providing fresh venison for the royal table, when Arthur’s horse pulls to a stop. In all honesty, this patch of forest looks no different from any other, but he must have decided they’ve come far enough to put the Plan into motion safely, so Merlin pulls hard on his reins to follow suit.

Arthur dismounts nimbly, looking as though his backside is not complaining of the long ride in the slightest, which is more than Merlin can say of himself as he hops onto the grassy ground in imitation of his prince.

“All right.” There’s a long, pregnant pause, as if Arthur were preparing to do something thoroughly unpleasant. “I’ll have you know I really don’t like this, but there’s no other way out. Father’s got it into his head that the hailstorm must have been caused by a sorcerer, so let’s give him one. Show me what you’ve got.”

Merlin retrieves his satchel and digs out his small treasures for inspection. Lying innocently beside the food for the trip are the motley results of a multitude of carefully planned little thefts he carried out when Gaius’s attention was elsewhere (not to mention a couple that he knows the old man must have noticed, but Gaius has long since given up on asking undue questions about his activities). It’s mostly herbs and potions, really, snatched from the back of the physician’s many shelves, away from the remedies to the most common of ailments. His choices have the double advantage of being too exotic for the king to recognize them on sight as plain and distinctly un-magical medicines, and obscure enough that Gaius likely won’t miss them unless there’s a sudden outbreak of some rare illness that absolutely requires them. There is nothing sorcerous whatsoever about most of it; the poultice Arthur is currently holding up does nothing that he knows of, except looking properly suspicious to one who is already prone to seeing signs of sorcery whichever way he turns.

And then Arthur cocks his head, his face a comical mask of puzzlement that Merlin will remember for a long time to come. He hides a smirk behind his hand: the prince has found the crown jewel of his collection.

The stroke of inspiration had come at night, as he sat up in bed with his loot spread out in front of him, unable to shake the feeling that none of it looked quite magical enough, not when he’d seen what real magic was capable of. He needed something a bit more impressive, but for all his fabled power, ‘impressive’ seemed to go against his very nature. His magic was not a showy thing with loud noises and puffs of smoke and plenty of dramatic apparatus meant to strike fear in the hearts of men; it had grown into something sly and unassuming, practiced in the shadows with no great fanfare, and now that he was supposed to come up with something blatant, he was at a loss. He scrambled for his book in search of ideas, pulling it out of its customary spot under the loose floorboard and biting his lip at the irony as he flipped through the pages at random. Now _there_ was something properly magical, and he could hardly part from it. Creating the spoils of a fictional sorcerer was a careful balancing act: if they didn’t look magical enough, the Plan wouldn’t work, and if they looked too magical, Arthur would believe Gaius had gone back to his old ways and might blab to his father. He’d been just about to give up when something caught his eye.

That something is now hanging from the prince’s reluctant fingers, held at arm’s length as if it might bite, and if that’s how the son takes it, Merlin can hardly wait to see the father’s reaction.

“You’re telling me this is Gaius’s?”

“Er… must be?” _Technically_ , he isn’t lying. Merlin has gotten away on a lot of technicalities ever since he set foot in Camelot.

It’s considerably less valuable than its outward appearance might suggest: it came out rather pretty, if he does say so himself, but far from being a precious gem, it’s actually only a bit of glass that used to be a spare vial. The judicious application of an interesting bit of actual magic has melted it and reshaped it, the searing heat of a furnace filling the space between his hands until he found himself with something in the vague shape of a teardrop, which he then put on a string and prayed that Uther would mistake for some kind of mystical jewel to be shut in the vaults before it unleashed its unknown powers, but that is the extent of it. It does nothing, it means nothing: even in choosing the shape, he’s stayed well away from any symbol he’s seen, for fear of implicating someone who has nothing to do with this. It’s entirely possible he overshot the spell somehow and burned away any impurities, because the pendant catches the sunlight in a way that the cheap, murky glass of Gaius’s bottles never has, but he certainly never intended to imbue it with any magical properties. Were he bold enough, he’s fairly certain he could give the king a good scare by making it glow ominously as he inspects it, a harmless child’s trick that he expects would make him drop it as if it were scalding hot, but he doesn’t trust himself to find a way to conceal the matching glow in his eyes, so he scraps the idea as soon as it’s crossed his mind.

Arthur looks supremely unconvinced. “I can’t see him ever wearing this.”

“Of—of course not! But you know how it is, he’s full of little trinkets like that. He usually doesn’t charge, especially people from the lower town who can barely make ends meet as it is, but some people just won’t sleep at night until they’ve found a way to thank him, and they don’t always have the money to pay, so they do what they can. I’ve no idea where that one comes from; for all I know, he’s had it lying around since before I got here.”

As usual, what had started out as a tiny little lie devolved rapidly into an uncontrolled ramble. At least Arthur is used to it and won’t notice anything amiss.

“If you say so. It’s certainly good enough for Father.”

“Is that your way of telling me I’ve done a good job?” he can’t resist teasing.

Arthur doesn’t even deign that with an answer, and instead opens his own satchel to retrieve… exactly _what_ is that?

“I bought this yesterday from a tailor, along with the man’s silence.”

He shakes it out with an unnecessary flourish to reveal a length of fabric in a shade of blue that looks like it’s been ripped straight out of the summer sky. Merlin reaches out and touches it: it’s surprisingly smooth beneath his fingers, the feel of it alone tells him it’s finer than anything he’s ever owned. He catches himself suppressing an entirely unwarranted sense of longing. Is that his idea of what a powerful sorcerer ought to wear? Is that what his life could have been, had things gone differently? Does Arthur have any clue how unrealistic that is, how unlikely you are to afford such luxuries when you’re in hiding? Fighting down a laugh, he considers sacrificing his own neckerchief for the cause—the blue is more faded, the quality of the cloth coarser, and it would be the closest thing he’s ever done to coming clean. All in all, a far more plausible representation of a sorcerer’s wardrobe.

He balks at how much the fabric must have cost; sometimes he tends to forget that Arthur has a different idea of the value of things, that he has more than plenty of money to throw away for their little ruse, and that this must not even have made a dent in his finances. Still, he can’t help cringing when the prince rips a strip off unceremoniously, studying the frayed edge he’s left with and nodding to himself, and then, apparently still unsatisfied with the damage, wordlessly pulls a concealed dagger from his boot and slashes through it.

“A-are you quite done venting your feelings?”

“Why, yes, that was oddly satisfying, I must admit.”

“Good. Now will you please tell me what you did that for? I hardly think a piece of fabric has personally offended you.”

“ _That_ , Merlin, is what remains of our sorcerer’s cloak after we’re done with him. Of course, the proper procedure would be to have him executed, but we’ll spin a tragic tale about being ambushed and having to kill him in self-defense. There will be an unmarked grave if Father cares to check; I hardly think he’s going to dig up the remains of a sorcerer, he wouldn’t want to unleash some sort of terrible curse upon Camelot. He’ll never know it’s empty. We’ll just need some blood for effect, which is why our cover story is a hunting trip. For all that he’s spent over twenty years rooting out sorcerers, Father surely can’t tell their blood from that of a rabbit or a hart when he sees it. Let’s go, and not one word about poor, defenseless creatures.”

Something inside him turns sour at hearing him talk of executions and unmarked graves so matter-of-factly, taking for granted that sorcerers deserve no better, that it’s ‘the proper procedure’. That, he thinks bitterly, is why he’s made plans upon plans upon plans to tell him about his magic only to see them sink: every time he gathers his courage, every time he fools himself into thinking he’s changed just enough to keep his mouth shut, if not welcome him with open arms, he has to go and remind him exactly how deep his father’s teachings have taken root.

The hunt is only moderately successful, but it’s enough to make the scrap of blue cloth look for all the world like it has survived a bloody battle. If he didn’t know, Merlin would be perfectly ready to believe it comes from the cloak of a man who’s been stabbed in the back in the heat of a furious confrontation.

“Nice. The only thing I’m worried about is our tracks: if Father thinks to check our story, he’ll be able to tell there was no struggle.”

“Let’s hope he doesn’t,” he says as they mount their horses and turn back in the general direction of Camelot, but his mind is already working a mile a minute.

He waits; waiting is something he’s become awfully good at lately. He has to bide his time, because Arthur is always one convenient coincidence away from finding out, and Merlin has no intention to find himself with his head on the block anytime soon. It would be too much even for the prince’s stubborn tendency to explain away any magical happenings if their tracks were wiped away seconds after he’d expressed concern about them. And then there’s the fact that he needs a distraction: it’s one thing to whisper a spell at the height of a raging battle, his voice lost among people shouting, swords clashing and crossbow bolts whizzing through the air, and quite another to do so in the near-perfect silence of the forest, where the loudest sound is the chirping of the occasional bird. Arthur may be a tad oblivious at times, but he’s not deaf.

The distraction doesn’t come, so he resolves to make one. He reaches out, and a gentle prod of magic later, there’s a rustle a few paces ahead of Arthur that may well be a snake. His steed rears up, spooked by the perceived threat, neighing loudly in fear and providing the single blessed instant of cover he was waiting for.

“ _Tidrénas_.”

He barely makes a sound at all, but it’s enough. There’s a reason Merlin only resorts to magic of this magnitude when the situation absolutely calls for it: there’s a moment, between the spell making it past his lips and the feeling of the first drop on his face, when something inside him awakens, stirs, stretches up, all the way up to the high heavens, and _pulls_. All in all, not a stellar idea to do it on horseback: he almost falls off with the inebriating rush of it, but Arthur is too busy calming down his own beast to notice Merlin’s ungainly wobble, and he manages to shake himself into awareness. The rain helps anchor him to reality: it’s starting to come steadily now, and if he’s soaked to the bone, it’s somehow easier to believe he’s just a man, not some sort of giant with arms and legs long enough to reach up and rip open the skies.

By the time they reach the gates, Arthur looks less like his usual princely self and more like a drowned rat, but he seems undeterred.

“The rain will help wipe out our tracks. Give it some time and it’ll be impossible to tell our story doesn’t add up.”

“Yeah. Real stroke of luck.” It’s not as though he expected any thanks for it, anyway.

“Besides, we can work it into our plan.”

“Beg your pardon?”

“We have to make Father think we’ve dealt with a sorcerer capable of calling down a hailstorm, it’s really not that much of a stretch to blame the rain on him as well.”

It takes all he has not to break down in hysterical laughter. _If only you knew, Arthur. If only you knew._

 

Merlin’s stomach clenches painfully as Arthur slides their ‘trophies’ across the table for the king to examine. What if he sees through them? And even if he doesn’t, he never likes to be in the same room as Uther if he can help it: somehow, he can’t shake the impression that every time he opens his mouth could be the end of him, the moment the game is finally up and Merlin is publicly exposed.

He waits, breathlessly, as Arthur relates the tale they’ve prepared and Uther’s keen eyes seem to consider if the objects laid out before him match it.

“Well done, my son.” Merlin’s knees very nearly give out. The king’s grim face is everything they’ve hoped for and more: the face of a man confirmed in his beliefs, however unpleasant. “It appears Gaius was… mistaken. Summon him on your way out, I must make sure he had no contact with this man.”

Fear grips him once again, and he steps forward before he can stop himself, even as Arthur stares, a wordless _what the hell are you doing, don’t you dare blow it_ etched on his face.

“Your Majesty, I know everyone who has dealings with Gaius, and I’d never seen him before in my life. I didn’t recognize him as a supplier, or even a patient. I can vouch for him. Please.”

“Hmm.” Merlin gulps. “You’d be surprised to know what sorcery can do to conceal a man’s identity, boy, but your character witness is duly noted.” _You’d be surprised to know exactly what_ I _know on that particular subject_ , he thinks defiantly. “Nobody knows him better than his own ward, I suppose, however biased he may be. I’m reluctant to think the worst of Gaius myself after all these years of loyal service.”

“Allow an old man his mistake, sire,” says Arthur, the picture of the dutiful son. “I, for one, don’t believe he was covering for him at all, simply providing another option that just happened to be incorrect.”

Uther lets out a slow breath, and maybe Merlin is just used to thinking the worst of the man who started the Great Purge by now, but he seems oddly disappointed to find that there’s no one he can punish with his own hands.

“Very well. See that the sorcerer’s possessions are destroyed, or failing that, secured in the vaults. I won’t have them out in the open.”

“It shall be done, Father.”

But as he passes Merlin the bundle they’ve put together, it goes unsaid that most of it is going right back where it belongs.

 

When a slightly too innocent “How was your day?” prompts him to tell Gaius all about their little treasonous escapade later that evening, the man’s eyebrows seem to freeze in an expression that is halfway between approving and wanting to send him to his room without supper like a rebellious child.

The worst is when he confesses his part in the convenient downpour of rain and is met with a deadpan: “I told you so.”

All right, so maybe he’d slightly underestimated his proficiency with weather spells. What matters is that he has no intention to treat the skies as his playground, only to lose sleep over the simple fact that he _could_.

Business as usual.


End file.
